Go West Young Ork
by deadbeard
Summary: Before the battle of Minas Tirith, there was a final march to doom. The valorous march to war though they know the evil before them is great and terrible. Yet meet their doom they shall.


Goroth awaited the signal. The gates slowly peeled open with as smooth an unrelenting pace as time itself. Goroth could feel the weight of those tens and hundreds of thousands in the tower courtyards pressing upon his back. The Rider before him nodded consent, Goroth barked the final order, and the host was off.

The Orks marched forward, feet stamping out a thunderous timed beat. The earth shook beneath the host as the tower disgorged its multitudes. Red torchlight bathed the legions, straining against the silver moon and the eldritch green of the tower.

It would have been a sacrilege not to see the red banner, the Eye of Sauron flown at the front of the army, and here the Orks did not disappoint. Banners, flags, and standards bearing the comforting gaze of the Lord of the Earth streamed aloft over the Orks, whose shields bore their Tower's lunar heraldry.

At the head of this column, just behind his mighty captain, Goroth marched in step, keeping the pace for his warriors. He was certain that those like him would make the march without complaint or tiring, the Uruks and other, mannish Orks. But the lesser Orks, those more like the goblins of the Misty Mountains, would suffer greatly at the pace needed. And should the sun arise…?

He pushed the thought away. It was best not to consider such things until Osgiliath, where their arms would surely be tested against Gondor steel. Goroth thought long on what that victory would feel like, to see the man-tribes of the Westrons scattered to the sea, to lay waste and ruin upon them, to reclaim the One and strike at the Valar themselves! If only such a thing were within their grasp!

Long had Orks suffered beneath the Westron's boot heel. The Elves, those thrice-cursed demons in guise of flesh, turned all mortal hearts to the destruction of their brothers, those they call monsters, _Yrch_. The Dwarves slaughtered whole families and communities, eradicating lineages and legacies.

Men, Goroth secretly thought, were not to blame for their actions. They were but passion, rage and love, set to war within their nature. The poor beasts were to be pitied, without proper reason, intellect, or culture to speak of. Still, that would not save them from the Lord's righteous ruin. The Age of the Ork was dawning.

The host had not yet crossed the walkway from Minas Morgul when its captain ordered a full stop.

This captain was no Ork, nor was he a man as any would understand. Long, dark robes formed his whole shape, hid what was and what was not beneath them. His horse snorted in protest at the sudden halt ordered with but a flick of its master's gloved hand. By what right did he stop? A long march was ahead and no delay could be brooked. Was this some delayed defiance?

Angmar slowly reached his mailed glove to the edge of his hood and drew it back, revealing his crown. Goroth, certainly, was in shock. His captain stood before him, shapeless and formless save for his robes and the brilliant, silver crown which even now burned with power in the space where there ought to have been the Witch-King's head.

A feeling had come over the Witch-King, and he loathed continuing until his curiosity was satiated. For a moment, and only for a moment, he had felt the presence of the Master. Of course he always felt the Master's power, of that there was never a doubt. But this was different. This presence felt like Sauron the Great when he resided wholly amongst the Seen, rather than the Unseen. Once, he was wholly and completely more than his current state allowed. Once, the Lord Sauron could command mountains to rise and fall, oceans to dry up, kings to kneel before his throne and beg pardon for their transgressions against him. One knew him by sight, by proximity alone.

He felt this only once recently, at Amon Sul…

The feeling passed. Angmar could not say whether the One Ring was a stone's throw away or a thousand miles at that moment, but if he had but stayed longer perhaps he could have staved off his doom for a while yet.

Angmar turned and nodded to Goroth, who ordered the march begin anew. Onward marched legions of Orks, and with them Trolls of the mightiest stock. Above the host flew the Witch-King's servants, the Nazgûl atop their fell beasts. The sky began to blacken with their leathery wings.

As the host reached the end of the Morgul Vale, Goroth and Angmar could see, marching from an adjoining path a long column of Men. These were garbed in mail and dress unseen in the West, but that the Orks knew to be the war-gear of the Easterlings, the Men of the East. So proud in bearing and noble in passage were they that the hearts of the lead Orks were moved to witness them bearing Sauron's standard. As one they gave up a hearty "huzzah!" and twice more until the vale rang with the sound of it.

The Easterlings halted and one of their number, an officer by his dress, left his men to stride up to Angmar.

"Hail Sauron-friend!" he saluted. Angmar saluted in return. The officer continued, "By your appearance, I would declare you the Morgul Orks. Or am I mistaken?"

"Indeed you are not, for this indeed is the Army of Minas Morgul, and I am its Captain. You are to Osgiliath as well?"

"Of course Lord! We have marched from distant Rhûn to aide in Sauron's glorious crusade. We need only pass here into Ithilien, and then to the White City itself."

At this the Witch-King looked upon the armies of the Easterlings, watching their numbers recede down the long corridor of rock they had passed through. Many seemed weary by his sight, but they hid it well.

Angmar drew up to his full height on his mount, saying, "Captain of Rhûn, I do not mean to offend, but you must have made a swift march across Middle-Earth to reach this place, judging by your warriors' state. If Men were meant to fly, Morgoth would have given you wings, would he not?"

"Lord, I confess the meaning of your speech eludes me. My men require only see the river Anduin to restore their strength." The captain looked upon the Witch-King with an imploring gaze, his muscles begging for rest but his heart unable to allow such a weakness. Angmar could see this plainly in the man's stance.

"Captain," he began, "you shall pass after my own host. We shall serve as a vanguard to the Men of the East, and herald your march into Gondor."

With this pronouncement, the Witch-King drew his sword and held the blade aloft, a radiant flame running its length. As he passed, he raised his sword in salute to the Easterlings, with the Orks on his heels following suit. As they passed, a ragged cheer came up from the Men of Rhûn, a hoarse cry of thanks and huzzahs.

The Ork Host continued further down the path before they came at last to the opening of the forests of Ithilien. Here the host stopped as if to gaze longingly at a warm meal before it has commenced. Goroth could swear the White City was already in view. Above them, beyond even the winged Nazgûl, Goroth noted the black clouds rushing all across the land, shielding the Orks from the hateful sun. That orb of fire and death the Valar set in the heavens to blast and destroy all the Orks sought to create. Waves of shadow lurched across the landscape, covering it all in cool, peaceful darkness. In that darkness, Goroth could almost feel, as his father's father must have felt, the soothing love of Morgoth the Maker as the Orks were forged in cold flame.

Truly, it was Sauron's will that moved the heavens thus. All the Orks in the host felt him in their hearts as that intense fire, a passion and a drive. Any who were weary after this march now suddenly felt rejuvenated, their strength returned to their limbs. Oh how they cheered the Master's mercy as his power roared about them, the divine Wind out of the East.

"Goroth," the Witch-King called to his Lieutenant.

"Shall I order the men to stop…?"

"No!" Angmar said hastily, "Let them have their moment…"

Goroth felt a disturbance in the Witch-King's heart. As one of the Nine, Angmar seemed to fade when he dwelled in his thoughts, passing more and more into the Unseen.

The Witch-King drew his hood back over his silvery crown. "There are many powers in the world, for good or for evil. Some are greater than I am. Against some I have not yet been measured. But my time is coming."

With that, the Lord of the Nine bade his mount continue into Ithilien. Goroth gave his Orks a hurried call to march and set off after Angmar.

As they marched, Goroth felt a growing unease settling in the pit of his stomach. To calm his nerve, Goroth thought on the impending battle. Assuming Osgiliath's meager defenders fell without a brutal, grinding siege; Sauron could claim mastery of Gondor inside a month. Yet the feeling did not abate, and Goroth was forced to wonder for the first time in his centuries of service if the Cause would succeed.

The more he thought on Minas Tirith, the more Goroth convinced himself that there could only be two endings to this clash of titans; the Ork Ascendant, or an age of darkness…no, an age of pitiless light that Middle-Earth shall not see the end of in his lifetime.

He said, quietly to himself, "The fire is going out all over Mordor…"


End file.
